Something Gorgeous and Something Grungy
by Amy-the-mystery-writer
Summary: Dean Winchester swore it was love at first sight. For real this time. Castiel Milton was nothing like the others. He was gorgeous, for one, and popular and smart and funny and perfect. No way some grunge scraped from the ghetto could ever get Castiel to look at him twice.


Dean Winchester swore it was love at first sight. For real this time. Castiel Milton was nothing like the others. He was gorgeous, for one, and popular and smart and funny and perfect. No way some grunge scraped from the ghetto could ever get Castiel to look at him twice.

But Lady Luck was on his side. Dean may not be good at much, but he was brilliant at English. Words always just came to him perfectly. Essays, poems, stories, it was like an extension of who he was. Castiel was absolute rubbish at it.

And somehow, their English teacher, Mrs. Harvelle, decided that no one could tutor Castiel better than Dean. The two had been meeting in the library every day after school. It was Dean's favorite part of the day. To watch Castiel sweep in through the doors, trenchcoat billowing out behind him, dark hair mussed up just so. They'd been meeting for two months now, and Dean still got chills.

That doesn't even begin to cover the flirt that Castiel was. He smiled and joked with Dean, brushing their hands together when they walked. They even went out a few times, catching a movie with some friends or study dates at each others houses. Castiel was a good friend, a great friend. But Dean wanted more.

Today he wasn't paying much attention. He's been working on an epic poem for Cas for a few weeks now, and he was just starting the last stanza. It was a collection of sonnets, each praising a different bit of Castiel that Dean loved.

Today's sonnet was about his eyes. How brilliant blue they were, how deep and moving, like the oceans. The way they always light up when he was excited, or how he widened them when he was confused and looked perfectly innocent. Almost angelic.

"Whatcha writing?"

Dean squealed and covered the paper, "Nothing."

He looked up and locked gazes with those stunning eyes he'd been writing about seconds ago.

"Come on, let me see," Castiel held his hand out, "I didn't know you wrote poetry."

"I don't," Dean was still trying to hide the paper, "I dabble in poetry."

"Then you won't mind if I read it, right?" Castiel reached around and tried to grab the paper.

"Actually I do mind," Dean moved so Cas couldn't reach.

Face set, Castiel pushed against Dean, trying to grab the poem from Dean's hands. They scuffled for a few moments, some choice words escaping Dean's lips. Eventually Castiel got the poem. Triumphant, he pulled back and held it out with bravado.

"___With beautiful eyes that shine like starlight  
in a blue that puts oceans to shame.  
So stunning and brilliant I wish I might  
take the glowing blue, make it mine to claim._

___Filled with your innocence, they grow so wide  
and I lose myself with the emotion  
of wishing that I could lay alongside.  
To stare, worship, to show my devotion."_

Castiel's voice trailed off. He looked at the paper curiously and then glanced at Dean. Dean's face was flaming red and he was picking at his sweater, pulling a frayed thread out and letting it float to the ground.

"This is about me," Castiel accused, "Isn't it?"

"You weren't supposed to know," Dean muttered.

"This is a poem about me," Castiel continued, "Me and my fucking eyes, and you think I don't deserve to know?"

"Not yet!" Dean said, "You weren't supposed to know yet! I was writing a whole slew of poems. From your hair to your eyes, to the way you smile when you see Anna score a goal in soccer. Or the way you look when I reference ___Hamlet_ and you have no idea what I'm talking about. Or the way you look at Rachael, with that soft smile. I wrote dozens of poems about you Cas! And I was just waiting for the right moment to give them to you!"

"You were writing poems about me?" Castiel repeated, "Why the hell would you do that?"

"You still don't get it do you?" Dean growled, "Castiel Milton, for the love of God I love you, okay?"

Castiel's eyes grew wide and he backed away, "I'm not gay."

"I know you're not. Don't you think I've noticed the way you look at Rachael? That absolute longing in your eyes when she walks past? Don't you think I haven't noticed? Fuck Cas, everyone noticed! And it all makes perfect sense, doesn't it? The gorgeous boy paired with the gorgeous girl. No room for white trash like me, that's it, isn't it?"

"I never—"

"You know Cas, next time maybe you should think about flirting a little less, it gives us poor saps the wrong idea!"

Dean slammed his fist onto the table for emphasis.

"Dean…"

"No, I'm done," Dean grabbed his backpack, "Good luck with your fucking English grade because I am done."

Dean slammed the door behind him as he left the library. Fuck Cas. Fuck his perfect hair and his beautiful eyes. Fuck his elegant fingers and graceful posture. Fuck him for making Dean fall in love.

He locked himself in his room and refused to come out for dinner, even when Sam and Adam came knocking on the door. Instead, Dean pulled out all those stupid poems and tore them into shreds. He picked up his Shakespeare book and started reading ___Taming of the Shrew_. It was his favorite play and it always made him feel better.

Except for today.

So he read ___Romeo & Juliet_ instead. Maybe he should do that. Pretend to be dead, make Cas feel sorry for ever breaking his heart. Then, distraught, Castiel would kill himself and… that was a lousy idea.

Dean slammed the book shut and threw it on the floor. What was he thinking, giving Castiel a poem collection? Everyone knew Castiel was straight, did Dean honestly think he was going to be the exception? That he was going to be the one Castiel fell for?

This was reality, not some TV drama. He should just wake up and move on.

* * *

Dean and Castiel stayed out of each others ways for a month. They never resumed their tutoring sessions and neither mentioned it. As far as Dean was concerned, Castiel deserved to fail. Son of a bitch didn't deserve to graduate.

Mrs. Harvelle cornered him after class one day.

"I don't know what happened between you boys, and I'm not keen on finding out," she announced, "But Castiel's grades are falling again and he needs a tutor. Do you hear me boy?"

"I can't do it," Dean looked down.

"You will do it or I'll call your father, and you know I will."

"No, please," Dean panicked, "I just… I don't think we're friends anymore."

Mrs. Harvelle softened and pulled out a chocolate kiss, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Dean wilted and gave in. He told her about the crush he's been harboring for the entire year. He told her about the poems he's been writing. He told her about the horrible accidental-confession.

"I don't know what to do," Dean slumped in his chair, "I like Cas. Even as a friend, that was better than not having him at all."

"Go to the library today after school," Mrs. Harvelle said, "He'll be in your usual spot. He's been waiting there every day for you to come back. I think he's got an apology for you."

"But—"

"No buts," she lifted her finger, "Now scoot on to your next class. I expect you and Castiel to have worked things out."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Dean was tempted not to go. He wondered if Mrs. Harvelle would know if he didn't show up at the library. She probably would. Dammit. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dean walked to the back of the library, at their usual table. Sure enough, Castiel was there, waiting, his Literature book open in front of him, empty coffee cup beside.

Dean froze. He'd never seen Castiel look so lost. He was slumped over, looking at his phone, at his book. His mouth was curved down, his lower lip extended and quivering finitely. He was crying.

Something in Dean's chest felt out of place all of the sudden. It was like part of his heart, the part dedicated to Castiel, had sundered. It separated, fell out of place. His stomach dropped to his knees and his eyes watered up.

With a huge sniff, Castiel packed up his books and stood up to leave. He turned and saw Dean and his bag fell from his hands.

Face to face, Dean could clearly see the tear tracks on Castiel's cheeks. Dean opened his mouth, but for once, found no words to say.

"You're a good friend, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, his voice barely a whisper, "A really good friend. I still have your poem and I would read it before I went to sleep. And somehow, in all your shouting and in these sweet words, something just… clicked. I could have all of you if I wanted. I never have to settle for less with you and it just took me a month of soul searching to realize that you're not just my friend, you're not just another person I know. You… you are Dean Winchester, the tough guy with a rhyme. You're my closest friend and confident and… and I hate that it took me so long to realize that I love you Dean Winchester. I love everything about you. I love your green eyes and your freckles and the way you smile and your little brothers and how you sometimes show up to school with oil on your hands from working on your car. And I just hope it's not too late to ask for your love in return."

Dean swooped in, trapping Castiel's face between his hands and finally, finally, pressing their mouths together.

Cas tasted better than he imagined. Dean swept his tongue through Castiel's mouth, hands trailing back to tug on that gorgeous black hair. Castiel's fingers (his beautiful, elegant, white fingers) were tugging on Dean's neck, pulling them closer and closer until Dean felt like he and Cas were just starting to be one person.


End file.
